


Running Out of Lullabies

by kyrilu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Graphic Violence, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Prince Loki Odinson is twenty-one, he takes in an apprentice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Out of Lullabies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostoftheMotif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostoftheMotif/gifts).



Anton’s eyes are crinkled in frustration as he scrawls a pattern of runes on his wrist. He holds a black brush, carefully inscribing swirls onto skin, and--

“Foolish boy, that’s not right.”

The brush snaps down on the wooden table. Anton turns his head towards Loki, a scowl upon his face. “This is ridiculous, Loki. What the Hel do you expect me to do? The brush is _huge_ , and look at that tiny writing.” He taps an indignant finger on the manuscript.

Loki frowns. “I’m your master, Anton. Please do call me as such.”

“Stop calling me boy, then. And, Valhalla, I’m your apprentice. Not your servant.”

“Still your master,” Loki retorts, even though he’s two years older than Anton. Twenty-one to Anton’s nineteen, even though he looks quite younger.

“I don’t understand,” Anton finally admits, after a pause. It’s only been two weeks within his apprenticeship with Loki, and he hasn’t achieved anything. Not one single spell, or rune, or concept. Why the Hel is he even here again?

It’s embarrassing. This morning, in the courtyard, Freyr had watched Loki spit out instructions about elemental magic, and Anton couldn’t even produce a tiny flame in his hands. Freyr had turned away with a toss of his head -- and, Odin, Anton had got a kiss from him last night, too.

Loki snaps, “Of course you don’t,” his forehead creased in anger. Anton realizes that he’d been there, too; he’d been there the other times when Anton failed, over and over. He bites back a comment criticizing Loki’s teaching skills, and just sighs, dragging a finger through the muddled ink on his palm.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Let’s take another approach, then,” Loki says briskly, already composed. He brushes the manuscript about the runes aside, and pushes another forward. “Here. Does this look familiar?”

“Yes,” Anthony says, with a shrug, quickly glancing down on the paper. “It’s a sword.”

A royal Asgardian one, at that. Anton recognizes the symbols curved around the hilt, the make of the sword; he used to watch his father make these back home, and later, moulded his own swords into the well-known shape. There’s nothing new about this sword, except--

“Here,” Loki says. He points at the inscription on the blade. “I know that you were formerly a metalsmith, Anton. Therefore, I have a task for you. Create an Asgardian sword -- exactly like this one -- but you must have runes on its surface. It is a touch of magic -- for luck, protection, and power.”

Anton lifts the manuscript off the table, squinting at the runes, at the almost-fading symbols in the candlelight. “I’ll make it,” he says decisively.

Because this is _one_ damn thing he definitely can do.

#

In between his attempts at wooing Freyr and Freyja, Anton puts himself to work. He orders the servants (now at his disposal, isn’t that grand, since he’s living with the All Father's son and all that) to send for proper materials -- sheets of metal, hammers, tools, whatever is essential.

His quarters begin looking like his old room, a blend of living space and working space, and Anton feels a rush of satisfaction once he slams a hammer down onto metal, sparks flying in the air. The noise is loud, pounding, but his ears are used to the wonderful cacophony, and he continues on.

Interestingly, it seems as if his friendships are improving in the palace, now that it looks like he has something important to accomplish. He’s getting more settled in -- he has a schedule and he’s capable of doing things, and it looks like he’s going to stay here, almost forever.

_A mighty magic sword,_ he says to Freyja during dinner, and she smiles wryly at him (bright and beautiful like the sun) and they clink ale mugs.

Anton stumbles into the library with her, Freyr forgotten, and they fuck, right there and then by the dim candlelight. She touches him with warm hands and laughing eyes, saying his name encouragingly; she tastes fresh and bright, like old battles fought yesterday night, and there’s something so joyous in her contented gasps and sighs that Anton feels like he’s still a blacksmith, constructing a simple beautiful work of art.

“My brother will appreciate you,” Freyja says, after they’re done, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Anton is torn between flushing, his flirtations caught, or grinning unashamedly. He chooses the latter, and she laughs.

“My bed still remains open,” she says, as farewell, and he looks longingly after her, content.

He’s sprawled on the floor, half-clothed, when Loki rounds one of the tall shelves, catching sight of Anton. “Good evening, master,” Anton says cheerfully.

“Was that Freyja?” Loki says after a long silence.

“Yes.”

Loki lets out a breath. His face is slightly red, which is charming, honestly, but he merely says,”So how is your progress on the sword?”

“Almost complete. I’m about to decorate it -- some color would be very nice. Asgardian swords are very bland, Loki. What do you think of red and gold?”

“Noticeable,” Loki says. “Wouldn’t you be spotted if you were planning an ambush or attempting to hide?”

“Mm, but I’m going to make an impression on my enemies. So they’ll learn to fear me because of the striking and familiar colors. My trademark.”

“If they ever do see you as someone important enough to recognize, then yes,” Loki says, dry.

Anton shrugs, as if to say _of course I’ll be important enough_. He says, “I’ll be done tomorrow. The runes actually weren’t hard.”

“I’ll expect you to come by the courtyard at noon, then.” Loki has a steel glint in his eyes, a look that Anton learns to fear, over the years. “We’ll test your sword out -- see how it fares against Sif’s.”

Anton swallows -- even _he_ knows the warrior’s reputation as an expert swordfighter.

#

He loses. Badly.

But even Loki has to admit that Anton’s sword is certainly something -- swirls of intertwining red and gold on the hilt, complicated runes on the blade; it’s a masterpiece, better than your average palace sword. (Anton really can’t restrain his ego when it comes to his metalwork. He knows it shows.)

His next assignment is to make a sword like that for Loki.

“Black and green for you,” Anton says offhandedly, and Loki thumps him on the head. “ _Master!_ ”

Loki gives Anton an expectant look.

“Yes. Fine. What runes would you like me to tailor to your needs?”

“There you are,” Loki says, satisfied, with a laughing smile, and Anton cracks a small smile back at him, scribbling down the runes that Loki recites.

Here is something that Anton can admit: Loki is the best teacher he’s ever had. Haward didn’t teach him anything -- after all, what could the supposed best blacksmith in the realm offer to his little son? It’s just -- Anton can do whatever he sets his mind to, trying and learning and building, and he _likes_ it here. Maybe he can’t do elemental magic or teleport or fly, but he plays with magic and metal like he’s goddamned born for it.

#

Anton has heard whispers of Loki being adept of all things mischief, but he never witnessed his master in action. Until, of course, he sees the aftermath -- he sees Loki rush out to the forest (where did he even come from?) something gold in his hands, and Anton follows.

He’s never been in this part of the forest before. It is light, here, sun shining through the tree branches, and Anton finds Loki lying on the grass on his back, the gold items spread out by his side. His arms are outstretched, his breath is coming out in deep pants. His attire is slightly singed, and Hel, why is Loki’s eyes so bright? 

“Master,” Anton says.

Loki starts. “Anton.”

“Are those apples?” he says, indicating the pile of gold.

“From their keeper Idun. Former keeper, I suppose. The Aesir told me to take them.” Loki closes his hand over one. “I kept several, of course. You never known how useful these are -- for trade or otherwise.”

“You’re burnt,” Anton says flatly.

A grimace. “Thor sent lightening down to set the palace walls on fire to burn Thjasse.” He stops. “I do hope there aren’t other giants around to punish Idun for losing the apples. She’s a lovely woman, you know.”

“For immortality?”

“Indeed. Youth. Beauty. Our stock was running low. For the first time in eons.”

Anton says, “Someone should get you to the infirmary. Those burns look like they hurt.”

“No matter,” Loki waves away. “I can heal myself. I merely require rest.” He closes another hand over an apple. “I’m tired, Anton,” he says quietly.

“I can see that, master.”

“Guard me, then.”

Anton doesn’t reply.

Loki’s eyes flutter closed, and he sleeps. Anton watches him, and watches the apples. He doesn’t dare approach Loki’s side, but he perches in one of the trees (it reminds him of climbing the oak outside his house, when he was younger), his hand on his red-and-gold sword hilt.

Loki sleeps for a long time.

#

They burst out of the cave, running as fast as they can to escape the echoing monster’s footstops. Thor leads the way, his arms pumping up and down, Mjolnir swinging back and forth, and behind him, the Warriors Three, Sif, Loki, and Anton.

Thor is laughing, a long hearty chuckle that booms so loud, so strong, into Anton’s ears, and he feels warmth swelling in him when they halt, gasping, on a seashore.

“That was amazing,” Anton says, hands on his knees when he steadies himself. “Hel, Lady Sif, do you remember the way the first beast recoiled when you swung at him?” He mimes her stance, taking an imaginary swing at an invisible creature.

“Yes!” she exclaims. “And, when he stumbled, Thor sent down a mighty bolt of lightening that felled him!”

“But then his compatriots emerged behind him. Dreadful creatures, more fierce than him, for he was only a babe,” Volstagg says.

“While you were cowering in the corner, friend,” Fandral says slyly, smiling playfully. “But I faced them with the courage of a thousand warriors. The maidens and the lords -- oh, they will be so proud to hear my story!”

Volstagg scoffs, affronted, but he’s clearly too excited to argue. Even Hogun, the quiet one, seems to be smiling, recalling the battle alongside them.

Loki says, “And you, Anton. You did quite well.” His elbow jolts Anton’s lightly, and Anton grins. “We’ll have to correct your form, of course. But, brother, the strength of the sword -- when he slayed the one of the largest beasts of them all, did you not see the others cower?”

“They did!” Thor booms. “And the fire of my lightening, the loud noise of my thunder -- they quivered in fear, my friends, before I finished them off.”

“And we triumphed!” Volstagg says.

They’ve collapsed on the beach sand, forming a circle, and Loki magicks a fire in the center to warm them. Anton rolls his eyes when Fandral slides close to him. 

“This was an excellent first quest, was it not, Anton?” Fandral says.

“Indeed,” Anton says. “I would not mind accompanying you on others. There is much to see in this realm and others.” On the word _you_ he shoots Fandral a crooked smile, because why the Hel not? Fandral smiles back.

“Many foes to be conquered,” Thor agrees. “Many treasures to be sought.”

“We shall have hundreds of tales to tell,” Sif says.

Fandral interrupts to say, “Anton, like your Loki said, your sword is masterful. You have a great talent for metal magic work, I see.”

“So I’ve been told, yes. But you yourself are an expert swordsman, Lord Fandral. With any edged weapon, you can hold your own.” Well. That was laying it on rather thick, but at least his intentions are quite clear now.

Fandral beams. “Quite right. And you may call me Fandral, Anton. We are comrades now, after all.”

“Fandral the Dashing,” Anton says, teasing, for that was the title the man was known as in Asgard. Anton wouldn’t be surprised if Fandral made it up himself. (Which he deserves. Definitely. Well-placed muscles along his arms, fair hair, razor smile, a fierce warrior to boot.)

“Anton the Attractive,” Fandral shoots back.

Sif bursts out laughing, then, while Thor and Volstagg merely look confused, obviously. Hogun is silent as always, and Anton doesn’t think to look at Loki, who is usually a mute observer, as well, when it comes to large conversations.

“Enough of your swaggering,” Loki snaps, suddenly, and Anton almost jumps. “Anton is nineteen years, Fandral, and you are of equal years to Thor.” He is bristling, his eyes a luminous green, perhaps from magic.

“He is not a child, Loki,” Fandral replies sharply. “Have you not noticed his interactions with Freyja and Freyr, both older than he?”

“He is my apprentice.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to dictate everything in my life,” Anton says, the anger rushing into his voice, the lightness in his head from battle disappearing. “Master, I can ‘swagger’ with whomever I like.” He folds his hand over Fandral’s shoulder, and feels like he’s back home again -- stuck. Stuck in a small village with a horrible drunkard of a father, stuck with limited tools and no mother.

And then Loki -- Loki looks tired, and Anton’s stomach is tight. _A dark haired man on the forest grass, apples around him, sunlight mirroring eyes or eyes mirroring sunlight, he can’t tell the difference._ “Apologies, Anton,” Loki says eventually.

Anton merely nods, and Fandral pulls him away, hand on his waist.

#

Anton unwraps himself out of Fandral’s cloak in the early morning. They all had decided to settle on the beach for now, then trek back to Asgard when morning comes. Currently, it is still dark, the sun not out yet, but Anton can’t convince himself to fall asleep.

He casts a glance over Fandral’s slumbering figure and grins. He wouldn’t mind another round sometime in the future. He dips a finger down to twine a finger through a blond curl, and blows him a goodbye kiss.

Anton quickly dresses, snapping buckles and hooking buttons. The ocean tides make a wonderful rushing sound when they rush to the sand, washing in and out. He’d been to the sea, before, when he was a child. It tugs at him -- and he moves closer, traipsing across the sandy ground to take a look.

He sees Loki. He is wide awake, standing beside the waves, the water soaking over his black boots.

“You’re going to get wet,” Anton says, from behind Loki, but Loki doesn’t flinch. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Loki admits. “It is loud here.”

Anton shrugs. “I like it. A long while ago, I used to play by the ocean.” He stares at the white-blue waves. He has fond memories of constructing his own boat, shaping wood and metal underneath his hands. Was it his first creation? Perhaps.

“Did Fandral treat you well?” Loki says.

Anton tilts his neck out towards Loki, skin covered with marks. He smiles, grim with amusement, and says, “Don’t, master.”

“Apologies,” Loki says almost inaudibly, an echo from last night.

There’s silence. Anton thinks he can see the sun slowly peeking out of the horizon, clouds tinged with color. In the end, he can’t stop looking at the ocean. His old boat. His child self. His--

“What are you thinking, Anton?” Loki says, softly.

“My mother,” he says, hoarse, the word caught in his throat.

“I have heard much of Haward Starkson,” Loki says, “but nothing of his wife.” It’s a gentle acknowledgement, an unspoken question.

Anton lifts his shoulders up, shrugs them down. “She’s dead. Died when I was eight. Her named meant _sea_.”

“I see.”

“What are you thinking?”

“My brother,” Loki answers. “Do not worry about my private wonderings, Anton. I have constant, unnecessary thoughts. Doubts.”

Anton inclines his head. Thor. He isn’t blind. He can understand why Loki doesn’t approve of his rash, reckless brother. But Thor’s a brave warrior. Thor could become someone, Anton thinks; he doesn’t doubt.

“Were you thinking of me, too?” Anton says in half-jest, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Do not pride yourself, you fool,” Loki says, and Anton turns shining, laughing eyes at him, and smiles.

Momentary _anger_ flashes on Loki’s face, then, and Anton notices his master’s clenched fists. _What...?_

“Loki,” he says.

Loki doesn’t respond. His eyes are shut. It looks as if he’s merely listening to the sea.

#

Anton perches the manuscript on his lap. He still hasn’t finished Loki’s sword yet, but he thinks he’s almost done. Taking a quill, he makes a practice sketch of one of the runes, idly wondering where to place it on the sword. Placement matters quite a lot in sorcery -- should the protective symbols be closer to the hilt, or should the ones for luck? Anton grimaces, and gives up, setting the quill back inside the inkwell and the manuscript back on the bedside table.

He shifts his bed pillow at a more comfortable position, then pokes at the sleeping man next to him. “Fandral. Wake up. It’s morning.”

“Mm,” Fandral says, shifting to face him with a yawn. “Good morning, Anton.” He flicks a lazy smile in Anton’s direction, and Anton throws a pair of trousers on Fandral’s face. “What was that for?” he says sulkily.

“You had your vanity face on, idiot,” Anton says. “Valhalla, don’t be too proud of your own self in bed.”

“Vanity face,” Fandral repeats with a snort, starting to disentangle the trouser legs from around his neck.

“Vanity face,” Anton confirms. He reaches forward to undo the burgeoning knot on Fandral’s neck, shaking his head. “And they call you a noble warrior.”

“It’s what’s charming about me, dear Anton,” Fandral says airily.

Anton says, “I have lessons with Loki at the present, Fandral. You can stop by tomorrow night, if you like. Unless you’re too preoccupied, of course.”

Fandral lets out a hearty laugh. “I accept your offer, Anton. I am _preoccupied_ tonight, but you may join me with Freyr, if you are so inclined.”

“I would love to, but I have Loki’s sword to finish. Next time, though,” Anton says. He climbs out of bed and tugs on his clothes; Fandral’s watching him with approving eyes.

“My dear,” Fandral purrs, and Anton smirks and kisses Fandral’s forehead, mouth pressing the skin between parted bangs.

He’s almost late to his lesson, knapsack jostling against him when he rushes to the library. “Master,” he says, sliding into a chair.

“Good morning, Anton,” Loki says, glancing up. He looks as if he’s been there for hours, a heavy tome on the table. It’s opened halfway.

“Can you help me with this?” Anton asks. He slides over the sketch he’d been working at this morning. “Hel, I think I understand. But how do I put this into practice? Carving the runes on your sword, that is?”

Loki peers at the inked drawing, his eyes widening in surprise. “This is rather excellent, actually. Your placement of the runes is interesting. Usually sorcerers order them by descending or ascending power...but hmm, this may be potent.”

“I tested the runes on different metals,” Anton says. “And then I ordered them by their reactions. Because -- well, metal is important for a weapon, after all. I don’t know if my method will be effective, though. Do you mean to say that this hasn’t been done before?”

“I don’t believe so,” Loki says, tracing the outline with his finger. “ _Interesting,”_ he says again.

Anton says, “Impressed?” with a smug expression forming on his face. 

“Slightly,” Loki says, and Hel, Anton is sure that he’s teasing.

“Master,” he rebukes.

“Call me Loki,” his master cuts in, gently pushing the sketch back into Anton’s hands. “It’s all right, you fool. You know I’m proud of you.”

“I know,” Anton says.

#

“Teach me how to fly,” Anton says the next day. He prods a manuscript towards Loki. “I want to be able to keep up with you and Thor, Loki.”

“It’s not an easy concept,” Loki says. “I don’t believe your magic can adapt to flight, Anton. You’re more suited to working with earth elements -- metal, jewel catalysts, and other such objects combined with runes. The Warriors Three and Sif cannot fly, either.”

“Well, I can try.”

“You can,” Loki says, forehead creased in thought. “Hmm. Let’s leave this to you, then. See if you can come up with an intriguing solution like last time.”

“A challenge,” Anton says. “All right, Loki. I accept.”

“Excellent. Now. My sword.”

Anton presents the bundle to Loki with a dramatic flourish. “Complete. The best sword in the realm, in fact.”

“You have my gratitude,” Loki says simply. “Spar with me.”

“And that is another challenge I accept,” Anton says, with a smile, and wraps a hand around Loki’s forearm, dashing out towards the courtyard. Loki laughs, to Anton’s surprise, a chuckle reverberating from his chest, and they both reach for the morning sunlight.

(He is young. He is young, and has lain in bed with warriors and gods and goddesses. He is young, and Loki is one goddamned beautiful kid, and Anton doesn’t mind _this_ at all.)

So they fight -- Loki’s new sword versus Anton’s, the colors of red-gold-black-green swirling in the air. Loki is quick, spinning whenever Anton lands a blow, and their match goes on for quite a while, pushing forward and pushing back.

“Use your magic, Anton,” Loki instructs -- he’s been holding back his own magic, merely limiting their combat to physical skill.

Anton focuses on the blade, channeling energy into the runes. The magic slams from his palms, the force of it almost ricocheting from the sword, and Anton catches himself as he almost falls. “Valhalla,” he grits out between his teeth.

Loki’s sword is glimmering emerald green, and he swipes it down on Anton’s, the magic already weakening. This time, Anton does fall, and Loki lowers the tip of his blade on Anton’s throat. “You have to control your magic, Anton. Try again.”

And Anton does -- for the second time, the third time, the fourth time. It’s finally the fifth time when he simmers the burst of magic down, actually having some kind of rein on it, but by then, he’s exhausted.

“Adequate,” Loki says, hooking his sword back into its sheath. “We’ll do this again tomorrow.”

Anton groans, sinking into the cobblestone floor, drained. He breathes, slowly, up at the sky, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from his face, and then puts the sword back on his belt.

Tomorrow.

#

Tomorrow Anton is sick on the courtyard ground, hands on the stone, coughing and gasping. “Hel,” he rasps, dry heaves catching breath, tightness catching air. Then he forcibly pulls himself up, trying not to vomit again. He wipes a sleeve over his watery eyes, and if someone were to look straight at him now, they would see how _brown_ they are.

Fandral is watching him from the shadows. He doesn’t step forward to intervene until Anton is finished. “You ready, Anton?” he says in an undertone. 

“Yes,” Anton says.

“Good,” Fandral says, and wolf-whistles -- Freyr and Freyja emerge from a distance, bearing weapons at their side. They greet Anton sympathetically, and he is gladdened by their presence, even though he would rather prefer the rest of the Warriors Three or Sif or Thor at his side.

But they’re away, battling in another realm. (That’s the point. And Odin sleeps, and Frigga guards him.)

“I’ll take us,” Freyja says, and she begins to murmur incantations under her breath. Anton holds the words in his head, for a moment; he’s heard Loki recite such things during their lessons, but they slip away -- he’s never been one for memory.

Her magic is not green or deep or bright. It is a soft white fading color, enveloping all four of them, searing Anton’s eyes.

“It really is,” Anton says, his voice a half-murmur, “all my Hel-accursed fault.”

He is back at his old house.

He is back _home._

“Someone get him,” Anton says, fixing his eyes on a window. “Go.”

Freyr and Freyja disappear.

Fandral says, “Lord Steinn has fled, Anton. He knew we were coming.” He is grim, mouth clenched tight, and his hands gripping his sword.

When the white comes about (with a touch of green in its embrace), Anton holds his palm up to the house and the forge and the old oak tree he used to climb.

This is the first time he uses fire. It is also his last.

He is yelling, but he doesn’t know that; but he does know that an old Aesir had taken Loki because of those damned golden apples (his master on the forest grass), he knows that _he’s_ been involved with this, because Steinn needed a smith, and guess who’s the best in the realm?

_What is a Liesmith without his lies? A prince without words, an Aesir without immortality?_

Anton’s legs give out, and he realizes that Fandral’s been holding out to him, struggling to keep him back.

“Fandral,” he says, the name like a question.

“You’re done, my dear,” Fandral says softly.

 _Why didn’t you stop me?_ he doesn’t ask. Instead, he falls, closing himself in the dark folds of Fandral’s cloak, watching Freyja and Freyr kneel over Loki -- healing.

#

Anton traces a hand on Loki’s scarred jaw. At the curved crescent of red.

Anton closes his mouth over the red, and whispers, “ _Master,_ ” like it’s a prayer.

With shuttered eyes, Loki’s head falls back against the wall, Anton’s teeth scraping across his neck, and the shadows play across them: dark certain inevitable.

#

Anton turns.

He turns, a coat of metal upon his body, flashing with magic. His colors are red and gold and blue, the last color there, the section where his heart lies.

“I told you I would find a way, Loki Odinson!” Anton says. He has metal wings -- strong, substantial things that glide on air currents, beat up wind, and take him places. He laughs from the pure joy of it, about to take off.

Loki laughs, too, the bright sound rolling off his tongue dashing up into the sky. “Fly with me, Anton,” he says, and they grasp hands on the cliff, overlooking the glittering sea.

“Now!” Anton shouts, a young high juvenile noise, and they jump, soaring across the blue and blue and blue.


End file.
